


It's No Secret

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Winchester Sister
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 10:54:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16809250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: Once upon a time Castiel thought it would be best to keep your romantic relationship a secret from your brothers. Once upon a time the seraph rather explosively realized this was an utterly absurd notion.





	It's No Secret

Castiel dislikes secrets – both secrets kept from him and keeping them himself. In his experience they lead to conflict, negative emotions ranging from resentment to rage, poorly informed, or just plain _bad_ , decisions, and ultimately shatter the trust in relationships, the pieces of which take time to put back together if they can be repaired at all. At present, as he trails you on a wooded path, crackle of fallen leaves tamped beneath feet on this sunshiny Kansas autumn afternoon filling the air with a dryly crunched chorus, the latter outcome troubles his mind.

When initially he felt a draw to you – his vessel physically reacting to your presence in a room, even more so to nearness – he suppressed the superficial attraction with a series of stolid stares, stumbles over speech, and seraphim signature awkward silences, none of which stood any chance of stopping burgeoning love from crowding every corner of his celestial heart. It wasn’t long before he unburdened himself of the building pressure and confessed to you _that_ particular secret. He never was very good at lying, especially when asked directly by the wide-eyed disarming object of his affection; it took you no time to seal your shared devotion with a kiss.

Doubtful of his worthiness to woo you, Cas worried, of course, about how Sam and Dean – mostly _Dean_ – would feel about a fallen angel, friend or no, courting their sister. So as the situation evolved, progressed from stolen glances, caresses, and kisses to _sex_ – at first shy and worshipful grown needy with a desire too often denied in order to sustain secrecy – your brothers remained in the dark; it’s what Cas’ doubt deemed necessary, and you happily paid the cost of staying mum on the matter in exchange for his love.

The angel, though, _deeply_ dislikes secrets, especially this one; he nourishes a blossoming lotus of guilt seeded by cowardice for what amounts to a purely speculative and selfish shield against your brothers’ blindly overprotective indignation and, as you’ve grown closer, an increasingly inconvenient barrier between you to having as much semblance of a normal relationship as can be expected as a hunter and angel coupled by the profoundest bond of all.

Watching the rhythmic sway of your hips as you tread before him quietly humming, baby blue fabric of a sun dress donned specifically for the unseasonably warm day draping your curves, overcome by the rise of carnality consuming both his vessel and celestial nature at the sight and all he has subdued, he stops up short beside an elderly oak; the edge of his trench coat flutters against the grizzled bark in the same wending breeze that ruffles locks loosened to caress the temptingly exposed skin of your sun-flecked shoulders. If you intended to tease him into lustful surrender with your attire, it’s definitely working.

Inhibited by the unforgivingly echoing halls of the bunker and obstinate occupation of the concreted confines by Sam and Dean in their unsuccessful search for a case in an endless stretch of supernatural silence, it’s been nearly two weeks since he touched you, _took_ you, in the way he yearns to. Routed again today by Dean’s suggestion you all spend the afternoon fishing since there didn’t seem to be anything better to do, your brother intimating you should make those freaking awesome sandwiches Sammy likes so much for a picnic lunch, the angel senses your surging frustration, too.

Cooped in the kitchen all morning while the boys went on ahead, marching to meet your brothers after Cas chivalrously excused himself from the shoreline upon your phone call to meet you at the car to help carry the luncheon accoutrements, mumbling about stuffing their mugs and hoping they choke so maybe you and Cas can have a few minutes alone, you’re both at the barren limit of making the best of it and barely preserving casual composure.

Standing there, reaching out a palm to stabilize his arousal dizzied form with the sturdy trunk, he can taste the salt of sweat thinly sheeting your skin. He scents, too, the wet warmth of wanton need steeping your center. A gravelly laugh vibrates his torso, self-effacing retort to the absurd folly of hiding your fondness for so many months; relief and realization, finally, that not enough is _enough_ – no more secrets. Whatever consequences he imagined up until now are worth being able to openly adore you for all the time you have together.

Hearing only the sound of your footfalls noisily cushioned on the forest floor, you turn, the angel’s name on your tongue, to see what’s holding him up. “Cas? We forget something in the car?”

Shaking his head, enigmatic smile skirting his mouth, he looks at his boots and bends to set down the basket he carries. “No, nothing is wrong. I was just … _thinking_.”

You stride forward, carefully negotiating several roots to cross the distance to him. Casting a quick glance over your shoulder to be certain you’re not seen, you squint against the glare of the sun glinting off water through the thick grove of trees a couple hundred yards ahead. Dean’s boisterous laugh carries on the breeze; they’re close, but not within eyesight. Swinging your stare back to the angel, outstretching fingers, you pull at the lapel of his coat and flatten a palm to his chest, matching his strange smile in a gesture of curious concern. “About what?”

Gaze lifting, brightness of his blues darkened by a hedonistic hunger, he rests his hands at the tuck of your waist and yanks you into the firm pillar of his body; pivoting, he traps you with his weight against the weather-coarsened trunk.

Arms reflexively slotting round his neck, you squeak in surprise at the swiftness of the movement.

At the sound, the creases around his mouth dimple in a broader suggestive smile. “Us,” he growls, “ _this_.” He leans in to ravish you with a kiss; the indelicate demands of tongue and teeth asserting he’s reached a cosmic peak of emotional and physical frustration.

You yield to the crush of his vessel, melting as he stiffens, the hardness of his cock pressing your belly through the restriction of fabric.

“Cas-” You tear your mouth from his with a sharp gasp, twisting your head sideways to speak as he continues to nuzzle your cheek with the scruff of his chin, a cavalcade of kisses wandering along the angle of your jaw and to your neck where his teeth graze the sensitive skin overlying your pulse point– “Sam and Dean might hear.”

“Hmm-” Calloused hands roam up and down your sides; one slides to squeeze your ass, the other snakes under the cotton of your dress, the caress drifting between your thighs to rub your unclothed and soaking sex. His growl renews, exhaled breath thrumming hot over your flesh to flutter your heart, at the discovery you wear no panties– “you’re right, they might.” Releasing his attention from the love-seared spot of reddening skin beneath your ear, he murmurs, “Let them.”

“Are-are you sure?” you ask, a breathless rasp of eagerness and apprehension. You bury a hand between you, deftly unbuckling his belt and shoving down slackened trousers to free him and leaving no question in his mind as to how _you_ feel at the prospect.

Removing his fingers from your slick, pushing your dress to bunch up at your waist, intent to take you clear, his palms round the supple swell of your hips. Nudging a knee between yours to spread you open, using the tree for balance to leverage your legs around him, he lifts you off the ground with a grunt not from effort, but anticipation. The sink of his cock into your silken slit serves answer as to his absolute certainty.

It’s been too long for sentiment and tenderness to prevail; giving you mere milliseconds to adjust, he sets a punishing pace with the piston of his hips.

The sting of bark abrading your spine fades to oblivion in the deep plunge and shallow drag of his length filling you over and over. There’s no slow burn – bliss coils in your belly, every nerve ending ignited by a fuse of explosive ecstasy. Nails clawing at his nape, thighs trembling beneath the bite of his fingertips, a cry of – _“Castiel!” –_ coalesces in your throat amid the wreckage of whimpers and moans bursting therein.

Tilting his hips for a final brutal thrust, punctuating the exertion with a reverberant groan, bliss breaks over your body, sweeping the seraph along in shuddering pleasure. Limp in his bracing arms, urgency of longing placated, he holds your spent frame snug; grip tender and less bruising than the lovemaking, he lavishes the lulling pound of the pulse at your throat with nips and kisses until he softens and slips from your sex.

Insatiable, squirming in his embrace, you murmur a moan at the emptiness.

Stifling the dissatisfied noise with a sluggishly sweet kiss, he lets your legs slide lax. Supporting you with an arm slung round the waist, allowing your sensually scorched senses the opportunity to reacquaint themselves with your feet, he tidies you both and tucks himself and the rumpled shirt back into his trousers.

Unable to stymy the smitten smirk adorning your pinkly-flushed features, shaking and brushing out the wrinkles of your disheveled dress, smoothing a few stray wisps of hair behind your ear, you catch the angel by the hand and look toward the brouhaha of Sam shouting on the lake shore where Dean is evidently reeling in something of massive proportions.

Castiel’s regard locks on the bruising crimson of the hickey ornamenting the bared slope of your neck. Before, he would have erased all marks of passion from your body. Now, pleasure over the visible declaration of devotion – not healing grace – wells to affect a self-assured smile in the upward camber of his lips. Weaving his fingers to fit through yours, reaffirming with a squeeze his relinquishment of all secrecy from your brothers, he stoops to pick up the picnic basket.

Urging him into motion with a tug, you stumble onward in the dreamy drunken afterglow of delight.

Past mistakes, the inevitable future ones, asking you to stay silent for so long out of a misplaced protective and, as he’ll soon find out because Sam and Dean have known for _months_ about you two, unfounded fear, the seraph harbors regret for a lot of things – loving you isn’t, and never will be one of them, and it’s no secret he wants everyone to know.


End file.
